Page 6 of Burn Protocol

Wait, what? A reporter. My eyebrows shoot up in high arches as the confusion floods my brain. Why the hell would I meet up with a reporter? Does she want a tour, a ride-along?

“Sir?”

He looks up again, all hints of playfulness gone now. I am looking at my Chief, who is about to give me a direct order.

“Miss Carter will write a profile on you. She will shadow you for several weeks and sit down with you for multiple interviews. I am arranging the paperwork for ride-along clearance right now.”

“A… a profile? Sir, I am hardly the right person for that…”

The muscle in his jaw rolls before he speaks again.

“You are the perfect person for it, Elena. It’s about female first responders, and frankly, you are the best one this station has seen in years.”

“Sir, really, I don’t think this…”

His hand slams on the table, making me jump.

“It’s an order, Gonzales. You will meet with her tomorrow morning, and you will give her all your cooperation. Do you understand me?”

Taken aback, I feel my jaw tighten. I affirm between clenched teeth, my hands now balled into fists at my side. He doesn’t say I am dismissed, but simply returns to his paperwork again.

I have to pull on every bit of self-restraint not to storm out of his office like an angry teenager slamming the door. I walk away, looking calm on the outside, but internally I am fuming.

What the hell just happened?

I spend the whole day trying to dig up information on Elena Gonzales, but besides a few articles on the fires of 2016, there is not much out there on her. She received her medal for getting her team to safety, but there is barely anything about the casualty. I could only find out his name — H.R.M. Cruz. He was a young firefighter, only 25, and left behind a pregnant wife.

Is Elena still in contact with his widow? Does she feel responsible for the kid? Sometimes first responders tend to take on the care of those who are left behind, I wonder if Elena is one of those people.

It frustrates me that I couldn’t find anything substantial on her. Not even an old social media profile like Facebook or Myspace. Absolutely nothing. Almost as if she doesn’t exist. At least not in the digital world.

So, today I am going in blind, which I totally hate. I have no idea what to expect or who I am going to spend my next few months with, and that unnerves me. Especially since the one thing I do know about Elena Gonzales, is that she is extremely guarded and closed off. If I want to get to her core, I will have to work hard for it. That’s already for sure.

I run my hands over my black skinny jeans and sigh softly. I glance in the mirror one last time. My blonde hair is held up with a small black hair tie, but several strands fall down regardless. Something I gave up fighting against. My white top falls off of one shoulder, giving me a casual yet sharp look. My white sneakers pull the outfit together. It’s basic, but it usually works. It doesn’t make me come off as an intrusive journalist, but rather as the girl-next-door. I sigh one more time, and then head out.

***

I arrive at the fire station ten minutes early. It is hard to miss with walls as red as the firetrucks themselves and a big white Bombers Barcelona logo painted onto one of the deep-red garage doors. It doesn’t take a genius to conclude that’s where the trucks are hiding out. They have four by the looks of it, but of course I will only know for sure once I am inside.

After I’ve stared at the building for a few moments, my eyes glance over to find the door. It is hidden at the side, painted red just like the rest. I smooth my pants one more time and then lift my chin. When I stride toward the door, I do so with a certainty that makes it seem like I’ve done it for years.

But when my hand pushes down the handle, I feel my pulse speed up ever so slightly.

The room I enter is small—more a square hallway really. The black and white tiles are cracked and look older than my mother.

There is a wobbly display closet with some old firefighter gear on the shelves, and there is a soda machine to my right. There are three wooden chairs pressed against the wall in what I assume is the waiting area.

Directly facing the door is an old plywood reception desk. Low enough for me to look over, but high enough that the man sitting behind it is still at eye level. He looks up from his computer when the bell above the door rings. His eyes quickly dart toward the clock above it, and then find me again.

“Miss Carter?” he asks before I can even walk up to him.

My lips curl up in a soft smile. At least they are expecting me. The Chief does not disappoint. I nod softly as I approach him.

“I’m Tommy.” He pats the logo on his polo to indicate himself. “Please have a seat while I fetch Gonzales for you.”

“Thank you, Tommy.”

I smile at him and his face lights up. He scrambles to his feet and rushes through the door behind him while I lower myself into one of the uncomfortable chairs. I look around the room again. There is a lingering smell of citrus cleaning supplies mixed with wood fires which, to my surprise, smells quite calming when mingled together. The radio plays softly in the background and the computer Tommy was working on hums.